


The Harmony of Light

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Artists RPF, Historical RPF, Paul Gauguin RPF, Vincent van Gogh RPF
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, So Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18377564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: After a furious argument with Paul Gauguin, Vincent van Gogh takes up his razor, intending to harm himself. But a last-minute intervention saves him from a grievous mistake.Inspired by this picture: https://www.comicartfans.com/gallerypiece.asp?piece=1438401





	The Harmony of Light

**Author's Note:**

> I wondered what would happen that night in late December if Paul Gauguin had come back to the Yellow House before van Gogh had a chance to harm himself. I wanted a happy ending for Vincent, not horrible loneliness and a severed ear.

It is very, very late on a cold December night too close to Christmas for any normal contemplation. He remembers other Christmases, many years ago, safe in the bosom of his family, with Ma and Pa, his sisters, and dear Theo. Christmas meant church of course, his father’s insistence on Bible reading on Christmas morning before they were allowed even to eat breakfast. 

It seems so far away, so alien to where he is now, standing alone and wretched in front of the mirror – alone in the dark with a razor in his hand, his gaze fixed upon his own face, distorted by vile emotion and smeared with tears. Yes, he is alone, so utterly alone. He is a man in hell, a hell of his own making.

He shouldn’t have argued with Gauguin. Lately he’s taken to picking fights deliberately. He doesn’t know why. What does he want? What reaction is he trying to evoke? And the fights are always about the same thing.

_You’re going to leave me._

_Vincent, you’re being ridiculous._

And turning away from him then, going to pour himself some wine and stand in front of the fire, the same pose he always takes when he intends to start a lecture, when he wants to make Van Gogh _listen._

 _You’re too emotional,_ mon frêre! _You must look at things with logic, not emotion._

 _That’s the most insulting thing you have ever said to me._ It flicked him on the raw, this assertion of Gauguin’s, as if he were a child and not a man, as if he were a little boy, desperately lonely—

_But you are._

He has drunk a lot of wine, a great deal of the rough red wine Gauguin prefers, mainly because it’s inexpensive and they are trying to economise. Gauguin knows the cost of everything, and keeps a careful tally of their expenses in a little book. He is forever on at Van Gogh for wasting money: _You don’t know the value of a franc! To you it’s a never-ending supply!_ Gauguin has taken complete control of their household; he would like to take control of Vincent’s money as well as his own…except it isn’t Vincent’s money, it’s Theo’s money. Without Theo, Vincent would be entirely and completely destitute. Earning a living is something else he’s failed at, another in a long list of failures. He really is just simply…useless.

His fingers tighten on the handle of the razor. If he starts on the right side – he is right-handed – then one long stroke across his throat should do it. He is no student of anatomy but he knows there are important vessels in the neck veins and arteries carrying blood to and from the brain. But it’s all buried under thick layers of muscle, skin and fat and sinew. He can’t afford to fail. He’s failed in everything else he’s ever done.

 _Tell me what you want, Vincent._ Gauguin had begged him. _You can tell me anything at all. I truly mean it._ But Vincent couldn’t tell him this. Several weeks ago, Gauguin had awakened early in the morning to find Vincent sitting by his bed, his palm lying on the bedcovers over Gauguin’s heart. _What are you doing, Vincent?_

_Nothing, Paul. I’m doing nothing._

That was what the fight had been about. In truth, Vincent wanted something Paul could not give him, something he could never ask for. He’d tried, and made a fool of himself, and the humiliation nearly killed him…should have killed him.

A door opens somewhere in the building – their yellow house is connected to a bakery on one side – and clicks quietly shut. Perhaps Dutours, the baker, is getting his next day’s batch of brioche done early. He made good brioche; he and Paul had taken some with them one day, when they went to paint out beyond the old Roman ruins…brioche and rough red wine and cheese, and they’d made themselves a picnic. They had drunk too much wine as usual, and laughed at each other’s little witticisms, until they stumbled home at dusk arm-in-arm. Gauguin embraced Vincent and held him close, whispered that Vincent was his comrade and his brother, and his words warmed Vincent like an inner fire.

All that is over now.

He closes his eyes. This will be easier if he does it in the dark, if he has the courage to make one long and final sweep across his throat—

Fingers close around his hand. “All right, Vincent. Give me the razor.” Warm fingers holding him, stopping him from doing himself a grievous injury. He opens his eyes. Gauguin is there. “I made it all the way to the station,” Gauguin tells him. He takes the razor from Vincent’s hand and drops it on the table. “I had to come back.” He draws a shaky breath and in the dimness Vincent sees his eyes are shining with unshed tears. “I…something drew me back to you, Vincent.” He wraps his arm around Vincent from behind, pulling him back against his chest, breathing in the scent of him. “I can’t leave you.”

He turns Vincent to face him. “Give me your hand.” Vincent does, and Gauguin draws him into his bedroom, into Gauguin’s bedroom, where he strips the tattered shirt from Vincent’s body, pressing his mouth to the points of Vincent’s shoulders, to his neck, his mouth. Vincent groans when Gauguin kisses him, swaying close, aligning their bodies from shoulder to hip. “I was a fool,” Gauguin murmurs, when Vincent’s roving hands slide the overcoat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “I was afraid to take what you were offering me, my darling.” Vincent’s paint-stained hands are trembling as he undresses Gauguin, and his eyes are leaden with love and a palpable lust. He holds Gauguin against him and they kiss slowly, deeply, luxuriously, finding their way to the bed, where Gauguin lays him down.

Gauguin licks a slow trail from the side of Vincent’s neck to his collarbone, to the gentle hollow of his throat, to the hard points of his nipples, so incredibly sensitive that the slightest pressure nearly brings him to his crisis. Vincent opens his thighs for him, takes Gauguin’s weight on his belly and his pelvis, clasping his legs around Gauguin’s waist. Then slowly, so very slowly, gazing into each other’s eyes they make love in absolute silence. Gauguin draws him ever closer to his absolute completion and forces him to linger there, while Vincent begs for it, his body trembling in its every bone and sinew.

_Please._

One word. It is enough.

He comes hard, groaning, his sweating body straining upwards, his spine arched into a bow. His fingers dig into Gauguin’s naked back as his lover follows him down into the dark abyss of pleasure, murmuring Vincent’s name. They lie quietly together, their bodies tangled in the sheets, and perhaps they drift for a little while in a kind of dream. Somewhere the church bells ring out, heralding the arrival of the Christ child. Gauguin holds him tenderly. _Je t’aime, Vincent. I love you._

They make love twice more during the night before falling asleep. Vincent wakes first in the morning, pierced through by his usual anxiety, his lifelong fear.

”What is it, Vincent?” Gauguin strokes his stubbled cheek, smooths a thumb over Vincent’s lower lip. “My love, what is it?”

”You came back.”

”Of course I did. I came back because I love you.” He smiles. “If that’s all right…?” For once in his life, he isn’t sure. His usual confidence, his swagger, has deserted him.

”It’s quite all right.” Vincent is suddenly sober. “If you hadn’t come back….”

Gauguin kisses him. “But I did come back.” He cups his palm against Vincent’s cheek. “I did come back. For you, Vincent. Only for you.”


End file.
